


Temper Temper

by ticktockclockwork



Series: The Life and Times of Tick the Tock [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:37:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ticktockclockwork/pseuds/ticktockclockwork





	Temper Temper

If John was sure of one thing, it was that life at 221B Baker street was never dull. If it wasn’t a case of missing children it was chasing robbers and thieves through the streets of London. And if not that it was Sherlock, stuck in a rut of boredom and taking it out on the world around him. John knew how to deal with those situations. He knew how to deal with the absurd. What he didn’t know how to deal with was the normal and that was what was causing him such an ill temper when he arrived back home late that evening. It had been raining as it always did that time of year and unfortunately he’d been caught in it, sans umbrella, so when he’d walked through the door he was soaked to the bone. The day at work had been miserable and he was exhausted. Just, simply and purely exhausted. Right to his war ridden bones. He had been hoping, begging really, that when he walked through the door to their flat he’d find Sherlock working on an experiment or (god be blessed) asleep on the couch. Instead he found him murdering Chopin on his violin and cursing the room in Latin. 

It was misery incarnate, and it made him want to cry. He didn’t even have the energy to yell. He was angry. Livid even. But no ounce of spirit could be found in him to yell at Sherlock to shut the bloody fuck up. Instead he dropped his bag unceremoniously by the door, yanked off his coat with a new sense of un-coordination he hadn’t seen since he was a kid and threw it next to his bag. Shoes and socks finished off the sodden pile of garments and then he was slumping into the kitchen, right past Sherlock. He went gloriously quiet for a moment, violin and all, before he opened his prat mouth and spoke. “You look absolutely horrid John.” And that was that. John would like to say that it was the needle to break the camel’s back but he doubted he even had energy for that. 

Instead he turned, gave Sherlock a most miserable look and said a simple “Thank you. That is exactly what I needed to hear.” Then he returned to his journey to the fridge to find himself something strong and 100 proof to drink. He knew Sherlock had some rubbing alcohol around here. That should do the trick. Sherlock, unaccustomed to his remarks being shut down so despondently, puckered up his lips and crossed his arms. “What happened?” He asked to no response. “Spit it out. It is clear that you mood was not brought on solely by my remark so please, enlighten me. Why are you so ill tempered?" John sighed and dropped his head to the fridge door. “Just leave it alone Sherlock.” He mumbled. 

“No. No I won’t because as you so eloquently put it before I can be a right ignorant dunce and not notice anything so this is me noticing and showing concern so please. Explain why you are so sour.” He seemed determined and John shook his head. “I said drop it Sherlock. I don’t want to talk about it.” Sherlock pursed his lips and set the violin down. “Tell me. Or I’ll go to Bart’s myself and figure it out on my own and then I will get my coat wet and you will have to pay for dry cleaning and we all know how much you hate that Asian couple down the road who runs the laundry-“ 

“FINE. You wanna know why I’m being such an ass?!” And the straw was found. “Because a fucking kid died on me today, Sherlock.” John had transferred to St. Bart’s after Sherlock’s faux suicide in an unspoken attempt to make sure it never happened again. “And you wanna know WHY he died on me SHERLOCK? BECAUSE HE JUMPED OFF A FUCKING BRIDGE, SHERLOCK. He failed in killing himself then and so he died in my emergency room later, SHERLOCK. IS THAT ANSWER ENOUGH!?” And then he threw his cup at the man he was yelling at as the last dredges of anger left him. He stood only a moment in Sherlock’s stunned gaze before roughly shoving past him and going upstairs. Sherlock didn’t try and stop him or follow him or anything Sherlock would have normally done and for once John was blessing the unfair God above that Sherlock was acting out of character. He stripped out of his clothes and changed into his pajamas before crawling into bed and yanking the covers over his head. And if he looked like a child, well too bad. He felt he deserved it today. 

He tried to sleep, he honest to God gave it all he had, but in the end his mind was just too busy and the apartment was just too quiet. He had two hours reprieve before he heard his door quietly creak open. He could see the light through his blankets but he didn’t move to come out from under them, instead curling up tighter in his ball. He wanted to tell Sherlock to fuck off, to leave him alone, to do anything but come closer to the bed but he knew what he wanted to _say_ to Sherlock and what he wanted to _get_ from Sherlock were very opposite things so when Sherlock crawled up onto the bed and over him he both wanted to shout at him and pull him in close. Instead he stayed curled. 

Sherlock was gentle as he pulled here and there, carefully tugging the blankets from John’s grip. He let them go without much of a fight but refused to open his eyes. He felt a warm hand run through his still damp hair, rubbing at the tense muscles behind his neck. The other hand slipped down to wiggle under his cheek, pushing away the pillow to turn his face upwards. Then lips were coming down, not to his own but everywhere else. To his brow. To his eyelids. To his cheek bones and temples. It was like Sherlock was peppering John with kisses on all the places he otherwise forgot about. He was showing John he saw him, all of him, and he appreciated what he saw. “I’m sorry you had a very bad day at work.” He whispered, breaking the silence as he held himself aloft with knees on either side of John’s waist. Normally John hated feeling so dwarfed by his jolly green giant of a partner. But right now he enjoyed it, felt safer for it. 

A weak sound cut out from his throat, acknowledging Sherlock’s words, but he still didn’t open his eyes. Sherlock shifted him, moved him and turned him till he was on his back and Sherlock could lower his hips entirely atop John’s. “Will you let me make you feel better?” Sherlock requested and it was such a change from his normally demanding self that John had to finally look. He was watching him, worried and wondering, as if this could all be some cruel trick that the darker side of Sherlock had concocted. But Sherlock was being honest and he let it show all over him. He just wanted to make John better. John nodded and swallowed thickly, looking away when he felt the burn behind his eyes build. Sherlock ran thumbs back over his eyelids and shhhed him just a little before leaning down for a proper kiss. 

Everything was slow from then on, careful. Sherlock slid his hands up the entirety of John’s waist, full contact, while taking off his shirt. The same with his pants. Contact was never broken, not once. Not even when Sherlock reached over to grab the lubricant from John’s bedside drawer. A hand stayed on John’s stomach, rubbing, reminding him that Sherlock was there. He stayed mostly quiet, only speaking when giving John a gentle direction. Lift your leg here, that’s good. Up, just a little, perfect. Breathe for me, yes, just like that. If John wasn’t in such a state of disrepair he might be awed at Sherlock’s performance. Instead he was leeching from it, drawing and feeding off all the affection he was getting. He didn’t require a lot from Sherlock but right now he needed this. 

Sherlock had two fingers slicked when heleaned down for a kiss, one of John’s legs bent and maneuvered between them, up against John’s chest. Sherlock warm fingers circled him and then pressed in and he had to gasp at the intrusion, pulling back to turn his face. “Breathe, John. Inhale and exhale.” John followed the direction and moaned when Sherlock worked the fingers in slowly, stretching him open. “That’s it. Perfect.” He kissed his jaw and John felt a slight tremor run through Sherlock’s body. He was showing impressive restraint on John’s behalf. He knew he’d have to show him his appreciation for it later. Sherlock worked those fingers in and out, following John’s lead when he started lifting and rocking his hips. It had taken time and they’d gone slow, but he was feeling this now, this simmering passionate intimacy. 

He gasped and turned his head to look at Sherlock, seeing his partner concentrating on his face, bottom lip bit harshly between lips. John lifted a trembling hand to tug it free but he cried out unexpectedly and bucked when Sherlock ran over his sweet spot. Sherlock cursed at the sight and dropped his temple to John’s, breathing heavy against him and moaning hard when John begged “again again again.” He could come undone at just the sight of John but he had to keep it down. This was for John and John alone. “More..” John was panting and his hands seemed like they were fighting the sheets, twisting the fabric and pulling to keep himself from losing it right there. “You. No, no I want you.” He begged when Sherlock tried a different move with his fingers and he nodded in response to the desperate request. He removed his fingers and coated his cock, lining up and then sinking in, burying his face against John’s throat as the man moaned the entire time. John was tense and Sherlock waited, slipping his arms under John’s shoulders when John wrapped his own around Sherlock’s neck. “Okay… okay… yes, now, please.” John was only half coherent, arms and legs wrapped entirely around Sherlock now and Sherlock wasted no time in pulling back and thrusting in again. Their pace was broken and marked most notably when John would cry out each time Sherlock found his sweet spot. Sherlock wanted to move faster, he wanted to lose himself in John but this was just as wonderously torturous. 

They moved not in sync and not in unison but most definitely as one, stealing each others breath, heartbeat, song. He felt John tighten up finally when he struck his prostate again and the man under him moaned and keened and bucked before pulling back once more to capture Sherlock’s mouth in the most desperate kiss they’d yet shared. Then John’s toes curled, his eyes shut tight and he came with a broken shout between them, ripping Sherlock’s own orgasm unexpectedly from him. Sherlock’s arm gave out and he fell against John, the two men panting, moaning, sticky and sweaty and for a moment Sherlock wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to breathe again. He was not complaining. It was a long ten minutes before he could pull himself back enough to look down. He ran his hand along John’s brow and his eyes opened to meet his own, making Sherlock smile. John was still tired, more now than even before, but some of the sadness was gone and Sherlock could tell his apology was accepted. While by voice he was apologizing for John’s bad day, in action he was apologizing for that horrible phone call atop St. Bart’s. Years had passed but Sherlock knew he’d never be able to say sorry enough. John would never request or require more but Sherlock conscious differed and in one way or another, everything he did was an apology. Leaning down he kissed John to sleep, slow and languid. And in the end, he was pleased to find he slept through the night as well, waking with John still in his arms, except now he had a smile on his face.


End file.
